


First Taste

by Foxinator



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxinator/pseuds/Foxinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after rising is a night of many firsts for William. Spike/Drusilla. Pre-Series</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Taste

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A fill for Wildlinggirl's Comment-Fic prompt: "blood tastes like metal. You get used to it, eventually."

Tastes like metal. Salt and copper and hotter than anything he's known, but it doesn't scorch his tongue.

There's a tiny part of him that kicks in rebellion, just for a moment, and he wavers in that place between ambrosia and nausea, frightened that he's just killed a man, a man who might have a mother or a wife or a child waiting for him at home, and at how much he wants to drink and drink until the man's heartbeat flutters to an end at his fingertips.

He makes a bit of a mess of it in his confusion, in the newness of the motions, as natural as they seem. His face is sticky and red and he's lost his spectacles somewhere and should he continue? Should he stop? William the Bloody indeed, but he's just a poet underneath.

But then she appears. She smells like jasmine and lilies and her skirts, rich and dark and almost as lovely as she, swirl around her legs until she appears to float to his side.

"Hm," she contemplates, her head tiled just so. He feels a wash of shame at the mess he's made. Never mind Cecily, he's so beneath Drusilla he ought to be staring up her skirts every time she passes him by.

Not that he would.

But he feels the fabric of her glove against his cheek as she peers into his eyes. "Don't like the taste?" she asks.

He owns several dictionaries, knows his way through them rather well, but if he even tried, he'd never come to the right word to describe her eyes. Could write a thousand poems, ten thousand, and never express her beauty.

And even in a million more he'd never be able to describe the smile she gives him, or the way he  _knows_ his heart would be pounding enough to make him ill if it could. "You'll get used to it," she promises. "It can taste quite nice."

But no matter how much more he ever grows to like it, the hunger, the lust, the hunt, the rush, the kill, none of it will ever taste as wonderful as her lips do in that moment as she washes the copper off his chin with her tongue and, daintily, grants him his first kiss.


End file.
